


sore loser

by todareistodo



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, England National Team, Hand Jobs, Liverpool F.C., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-10-30 06:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17823608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todareistodo/pseuds/todareistodo
Summary: jordan’s fed up of how sulky trent gets when he loses





	sore loser

**Author's Note:**

> because of every bloody video of these two, trent is a complete whiny brat when he loses and jordan thinks it’s funny, that’s a fact

“ _Hendo_.” The vowels are all elongated and painfully whiny. Jordan is seconds away from storming out.

 

“ _Trent_.” He mimics instead, drawing out the T insanely long until Trent stares up at him through furrowed eyebrows. His eyes are bright and petulant, not so much Bambi as a moody, stubborn Chihuahua. Jordan barks at the realisation, watching Trent’s eyes darken further until they’re dangerous.

 

“Love, you’ve gotta admit defeat. It’s-“ Jordan casts an eye around their hotel suite for a clock, eyes squinting to read the alarm clock on Trent’s bedside table “-gone 1.”

 

Trent eyeballs the pack of cards like it is personally responsible for his downfall. Jordan giggles as silently as he can manage but he knows Trent can see the shake of his shoulders from the corner of his eye and hunches in on himself even more as a result.

 

“C’mon, darling, don’t have a sulk.” He teases.

 

Trent has his arms crossed now, tight over his chest, fist hiding the England badge on his fitted t-shirt. The way his lower lip is hanging out is almost heart breaking. Jordan stares for a little longer at the way it glints, spit-slick, in the low light before he kneels down in an attempt to be a good friend. He trails thick fingertips along the bare, smooth skin of Trent’s forearms, feeling goosebumps tingle in his wake. Trent shrugs away from the touch, pupils sharp and warning.

 

“I’m not sulking.” He whinges. “Can we please just play again? I can beat you, I’m better than you, anyway.”

 

Jordan laughs, a full spiralling chuckle that makes Trent slump into his chair and let a little frustrated whimper slip out. He’s pouting, properly pouting. Jordan watches the pink tip of his tongue sweep across the seam of his lips, staring Jordan down. Jordan’s still drifting his nails along his arms because Trent hasn’t flinched since. He wonders if he could smooth a thumb along his wobbling bottom lip. Tell him to stop being such a brat.

 

Jordan sighs, arse still rested on his heels as Trent continues to sulk. “You need to get your beauty sleep, c’mon. You’ll only hurt your pride. It’s 5-1, Trent, love.” There’s a teasing edge.

 

Jordan’s too used, now, to Trent’s absolute inability to recover from losing. He’s spent whole trips playing abroad dealing with his petulant silence if he beats Trent at a game on the plane, had to claw back his affections more times than he can count after winning a game of pool or bowling or table tennis. He’s used to the way Trent’s youth reverts back into that of a spoilt, brattish 5 year old. He’s used to the way it makes him bite his tongue to stop himself laughing.

 

Trent’s eyes are still wide with distrust, like it’s all a grand ploy to catch him out and Jordan is actually against him and has been all along and deliberately made him look pathetic at cards for some greater purpose. Jordan is so very close to tracing his lips in reaction, _as_ _reassurance_ , his brain supplies, but instead he just stutters out another loud laugh and drags his eyes away.

 

“Stop bloody sulking!” He cries, still laughing, throwing his hands to the ceiling. Over-dramatics usually drag Trent out of his bouts of petulance. “I’ll put you on the naughty step.”

 

Trent whines, a high-pitched stream of sound that makes Jordan’s toes curl. “I am _not_ sulking, Hendo. I don’t care.” He huffs, now.

 

“Don’t be so bloody whingey then!” Jordan chides, fiddling around with the travel kettle like he has any intention of using it. This is just the routine, a script Trent has to run through before he lets the grudge go and crawls into bed metres away from Jordan as smiley and sweet as you like. At least he hasn’t thrown a tantrum yet, Jordan reasons.

 

“Make me!” Trent retorts, accent even harsher when he’s frustrated and moody and staring at Jordan defiantly. Jordan wonders about that naughty step.

 

“I will, you little brat.” Jordan teases back, not sure what he means or where they’re going or why he suddenly feels like they’re walking a knife fine edge. “Sore loser.” He jibes, just for the fun of it, just to see the way Trent’s eyes set light and he launches out of his chair to shove at Jordan with all the force and coordination of the small child he’s acting like.

 

“You’re gonna have to do better than that.” He mocks lightly, licking his lips and fixing Trent with a look to rival the intensity of the glare he’s been sporting for the last ten minutes. “Try harder.”

 

Trent’s eyes are a wildfire now, this deep-rooted, intrinsic compulsion to rise to every challenge pushing him to thud a hand against the hard muscle of Jordan’s chest, another harsh push and Jordan is surprised to feel himself stumbling back until he makes contact with the wall, Trent’s hand still splayed over where his t-shirt’s pulled tight.

 

“See.” Trent says, triumphant, hand - somehow - effectively pinning Jordan in place.

 

Jordan raises his eyebrows and licks along his teeth testily, an exaggerated show of impressed. Trent rolls his eyes and puts more force into the hand, stepping closer in a deliberate, entirely inelegant movement. The smirk pulling his lips and hiding the pretty pink underside disappears and leaves his mouth hanging open when Jordan takes advantage of his cockiness and flips them round.

 

“Touché.” Trent tries, breathily. It’s fun, Jordan has to admit, this sense that even though the boundaries have been vastly overstepped, they’re still only trying to one up each other. It makes it easier to follow, to stumble along and forget about the consequences.

 

His hand is wrapped firmly around Trent’s bicep. His thumb is pushed just underneath the tight material of his t-shirt and he can feel the muscles of his arms flex as he breathes and writhes just barely in an attempt to regain control, but his arms are still so much smaller than Jordan’s and his hand can close around it all the way. Jordan would be lying if that didn’t send a thrill through him.

 

“You’re not sulky anymore.” Jordan reminds him, taken by the intensity of their constant eye contact and the close proximity. “I made you.”

 

Trent rolls his eyes and it’s impossible for every ounce of his age not to be glaringly obvious to Jordan. He feels faintly disgusted, maybe, thinking of every interview where he’s been asked about how he’s a guardian figure for Trent, the bond they have, the way he cares for him but in an odd way he’s only coming to realise breathing the same air as him, how overprotective he is of Trent, how much he dotes on him, seems to make this make sense.

 

“You’re right mean to me, Hendo.” Trent complains, voice still whiny and just irritating enough it curls under Jordan’s skin like a rash.

 

“And you’re a whiny brat, Trent.”

 

Trent’s nails dug into the meat of his back press in harder and just as Jordan opens his mouth to wince at the pain, backchat some more just for the fun of it, Trent slams their mouths together with a painful lack of finesse and a sole goal of causing more issues. Jordan smirks just barely at the understanding he has of Trent before kissing back, nipping the pinkness of his lips redder and enjoying the way Trent seems able to whine at that even with his mouth otherwise engaged. He pulls away just to shove at Jordan again, looking like he might genuinely try to render Jordan silent that way before Jordan manages to achieve the same for him by shoving a thigh between his.

 

“Can’t believe you.” Jordan huffs, unsure of what he means but knowing it’ll rile Trent up just the right way. He’s clawing at the thick muscle of Jordan’s forearms as he grinds down on his thigh, cock already hard, and whimpering at the friction. Jordan can tell he’s trying his hardest to keep up his air of defiance but when Jordan moves his thigh just barely against his crotch, he whines an entirely different way and Jordan knows he’s won.

 

“I’ve won, lad.” He teases, nipping at the skin behind his ear as Trent works himself undone like the next goal they’re competing for is first to come. Jordan thinks they could have some fun with that idea.

 

“You’ve not. Fucking won. There’s nothing to win, Hendo.” Trent mutters, somehow still managing to roll his eyes at Jordan’s stupidity for even implying it. He wonders how his next comment will go down, looping both his hands behind Trent’s thighs to hoist him up just barely. Their height difference is less apparent like this but somehow feels like it’s even more obvious. Jordan is so obviously in charge, and even just holding Trent up seems to magnify it.

 

“We play a game. First to come loses.”

 

Trent’s face lights up, movements halting and Jordan knows that Trent may be twenty years old and capable of coming from a few more rough thrusts against Jordan’s thigh but he will now fight to the death to win, revel in Jordan’s fall from grace and go to bed that smiley, sweet boy. Just in Jordan’s bed this time.

 

“Deal.”

 

Jordan drops Trent onto his bed in a mess of limbs and grousing, laughing as Trent scrambles to pull off Jordan’s clothes. He yanks down his trackies with no preamble, ripping his t-shirt off his head and flicking a cursory finger across his nipple which makes Jordan laugh lightly. He hesitates for the barest hint of a second before hooking a finger in Jordan’s underwear, watching for a reaction as his cock springs free and Jordan’s more relieved than he wants to admit when they giggle a little at his eagerness.

 

“Don’t be a cheat, now.” He chastises, watching the way Trent’s eyebrows raise.

 

He undresses himself anyway, perfunctory and again only shy when he reaches his boxers. Jordan moans near-silently at the dark patch wetting them. Trent looks far too pleased with himself then and pulls them off with confidence he only gets when he thinks he’s in the lead. Jordan wonders how easy he’d be to mould if he stoked his ego but he decides to store it away for later perusal.

 

“We’ve done this before.” Trent states, _just_ shy and very pretty. Jordan is so endeared by him it’s a little pathetic.

 

Jordan replies, “I have, yeah, and I guessed you too.” Trent nods, surprisingly sure of himself which makes it all the better when he reaches for Jordan’s cock without the panic of inexperience.

 

He still seems a little curious though, staring at it and trailing a fingertip along the thick vein pulsing, drifting a nail along the head. Jordan sucks his lips behind his teeth and laughs disbelievingly. “I’m not a bloody exhibition, stop looking!”

 

Trent giggles sheepishly, all previous petulance bled out in the face of a new challenge it seems he’s sure he’ll excel in. He strokes Jordan harsh and a little too rough until precome starts to bead at the head and he smooths it around and down, determined to make Jordan come as quickly as possible. Jordan groans and leans forward into the touch, perfectly content to be brought off into what he’s sure will be a quick and nice enough orgasm before he remembers.

 

“I’m winning.” Trent sing-songs, his own cock ignored with self control made of steel, so determined. Jordan wonders at fucking him, feeling his desperation around him and completely in control of Trent’s pleasure but he knows he’s running before he walks so instead he pulls Trent to straddle his thighs. He enjoys the way the girth of them force Trent’s slim, pretty legs to spread wider around him, sweet arse resting against the base of his cock.

 

“You’re so pretty, love.” Jordan mumbles because he can’t help himself and rivalry aside, he can’t have Trent not knowing. Jordan thinks he looks beautiful. His hands grip tight into the slender muscle of Trent’s thighs, feeling the way his muscles ripple under the skin. A flush flutters over his skin at Jordan’s words, his legs fighting to close but Jordan holds him firm and delights in the barely-concealed whimper of Trent’s at being just a little put in his place.

 

“C’mon, Trent, wank us off. Make us come.”

 

Trent rolls his eyes yet again, shoving his palm in front of Jordan’s face and staring at it meaningful.

 

“You’re minging.” Jordan jokes but spits into it anyway, adoring the way he can _feel_ Trent’s light little laugh this way.

 

Jordan’s not sure if how hot seeing Trent’s small, oddly delicate hand struggle to find a grip around them both gets him makes him a little bit sick, but the mere visual makes his cock drip and Trent whimpers when he notices. Their cocks slide together clumsily, everything about the two of them so obvious even in how they look together but Trent seems obsessed. He traces the lines of Jordan’s cock like he’s fascinated, feeling the weight of it in his hand as he strokes him, moving with just his thumb and index to find the thickness. It’s oddly sweet.

 

“You’ve got a really nice cock.” Trent tells him almost absentmindedly before he takes them both in hand again, slightly slicker thanks to sweat and the dribbles of precome. It feels incredible, Jordan’s in love with the feel of Trent against him, the sure weight of him on his lap. His kisses are sweet when he wants them to be and he’s still got that little glint in his eye, that determined competitiveness that Jordan would miss if it wasn’t there.

 

“Cheers m’dear.” Jordan giggles, hips thrusting up just barely to get more friction, game forgotten in his head now as it swims through thick pleasure. “That’s so good, love.”

 

Trent stutters a little, his movements falling out of rhythm as he struggles to contain the whimper that escapes him, chest flushing. Jordan wants to clap his hands in triumph but instead he smooths a hand between them, wrapping his hand around their cocks so he can feel Trent for himself and decides to push and push until Trent breaks. He always has been good at talking anyway.

 

“You’re making me feel so good, Trent, honestly, such a pretty thing. Fucking brat sometimes but I’ll fuck it out of you next time, so good for me, love.”

 

Trent whines and eagerly accepts the two fingers Jordan traces along his lips, lapping at them so enthusiastically Jordan’s dick twitches against Trent’s at the feel of his tongue smoothing along the rough skin. He pulls them out just to kiss at his open mouth, in love with how red and bitten it is from nothing more than kissing.

 

He brings his fingers down to rub along Trent’s lower back, stroking just barely before he moves lower and massages them gently against his rim.

 

“You’re easier to deal with than I’d expect.” Jordan teases, chortling when Trent first smacks his chest and moaning when Trent then squeezes his cock in retaliation. “You good, love?”

 

“Yes, Hendo, _please_ , fucking hell.” Jordan may have spoke too soon about his complacency because his demand is coloured by that brattiness Jordan is oddly fond of. “You’re still gonna come first.”

 

Jordan shakes his head in disbelief, first finger into the knuckle where he’s hot and tight and clenching around Jordan’s finger. Trent whines again and strokes them both faster, wrist aching surely but Jordan groans in appreciation. He tries to hold it together enough to search for his spot and is unbelievably proud of the wail he receives when he does.

 

Trent is wide-eyed and panting and Jordan is overcome yet again with affection. “Hendo, Jordan, c’mon, come for me, please.” He’s whinging, yes, but begging too and doing too much at once and so completely Trent even here it aches. He’s leaning back into the finger Jordan is using to assault his prostrate, leaning into the tight pressure of his own fist, writhing. “This is ridiculous.” Trent continues on a huffing breath and Jordan has to agree. “Can’t believe a game led to _this_.”

 

He cries out when Jordan strokes along his spot particularly harshly, his cock twitching against Jordan’s and he can feel the slide of Trent’s precome against the head of his, the thought settling low in his gut and curling in the pleasure building and building and building. Trent’s attention is solely on him now, his own dick jerking against the flat surface of his belly and leaving a mess, hand curled firm around Jordan.

 

“What have I gotta do to get you to come?” Trent whines, voice broken and breathy, trailing off in intervals when Jordan fucks him with his fingers particularly good. “Call you Daddy?” It’s a joke, one he’s obviously proud of as he laughs lightly and squeezes Jordan again.

 

“You little shit.” Jordan laughs himself, smacking Trent’s arse wriggling on his fingers. He watches shocked as Trent’s cock twitches again against his stomach, cheeks pressing back into the pressure of Jordan’s hand, all while looking completely horrified by the fact. Jordan laughs again, smacking the other side just to determine and Trent’s hand stills on his cock, whining brokenly and head thrown back.

 

“Oh, you really are a brat.” Jordan jibes, delighted.

 

Trent shakes just barely, shivering and hanging on the edge, Jordan knows. “I’m _not_.”

 

“There you go again. C’mon, Trent, come for me. Come for me or I’ll smack your arse until you do. Don’t think it’d take long.”

 

Trent shivers in his grip, still pushing back against the fingers fucking into his arse, obviously battling with himself, whining and pulling at his bottom lip to keep himself sane, in control, still so determined to win, even another jab at his prostrate away from coming.

 

“You first, please, Hendo.” He manages, palm around Jordan’s cock so determined now Jordan feels slightly delirious with it. “Come all over my hand, come on. Wanna see.”

 

Jordan groans, toes curling into the mattress. He’s vaguely aware of the way Trent whimpers and thrashes in his grip as his fingertips clutch at the barely-smarting redness of his arse before he’s coming, all over Trent’s hand like he asked, brain dead with the pleasure of it and distinctly pissed off he lost the game. Trent looks like he’s won the bloody lottery, staring at Jordan’s come decorating his abs like it’s a gift before he’s working his own body down on Jordan’s fingers still in his arse, Jordan remembering himself just enough to smack a palm against Trent’s arse just as he strokes over his prostrate perfectly and Trent’s whining brokenly as he comes over them both.

 

“I won.” Trent announces triumphantly as they remain in position, sat on Jordan’s lap, leaning against his thighs and smiling blissfully. He’s trailing a finger through the come on Jordan’s stomach and it tickles, makes him laugh and shiver away from the touch.

 

“You won.” Jordan concedes, kissing his temple sweetly and smiling so bright his cheeks hurt when Trent’s eyes flutter closed and he sighs happily. “Well done, love.”

 

Trent grins and slides off Jordan, pottering around their hotel room like it’s normal, flicking on the travel kettle and tutting at the time on the alarm clock, cleaning them both up and dragging on a random pair of shorts that turn out to be Jordan’s. Jordan watches him with a dumb smile on his face, the pleasure of the moment tingling in a completely different way, affronted by how much affection he has for Trent as he monologues about how he beat Ox at pool last time they played, the time he hit the crossbar in training and proved everyone wrong.

 

“We should play games more often.” Trent throws over his shoulder, seemingly innocent as he tends to the two cups. “I’m gonna win every time.”

 

Jordan shakes his head and groans melodramatically. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

 

Trent blushes and smiles, reaching for his phone and wondering aloud if they should start a wager based on work which Jordan is quick to shut down lest he has to deal with Trent sulking more regularly than he already has to. Trent pouts a little, settling in Jordan’s lap again like an oversized cat, complaining about how his arse stings. Jordan laughs and laughs and laughs until Trent kisses him to shut him up, eyes rolling and body shaking with his own silent giggles.

 

“I’m not that sore a loser.” Trent argues lightly, tracing patterns along Jordan’s upper arms. 

 

Jordan just stares at him in disbelief.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! feedback welcome ofc :)


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